


Performance Art

by milksteak



Series: Everybody Wants to Rule the World [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, F/M, Masturbation, PWP, Petyr/Sansa Week, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Voyeurism, lol i just wanted to write porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 18:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1718597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milksteak/pseuds/milksteak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne learns she can get whatever she wants if she asks the right way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Art

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Everybody Wants to Rule the World](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1696916) but with none of the existential angst. Literally just porn. Sorry, everybody. "Plot" was inspired by _Lolita_ by Vladimir Nabokov.

Their life together is a parody of conventionality.  

Every morning, they wake at roughly the same time.  Whoever reaches the kitchen first makes coffee enough for the two of them.  It’s a lot of coffee.  They drink it together, usually with some sort of pastry, sometimes without, and they talk briefly over their plans for the day, editing them to suit the other.  For example, she never tells him that she plans on studying with Harry between classes, sneaking innocent kisses between shelves.  She’s not sure she wants to know what he doesn’t tell her.  He usually comes home far later than she does. She feigns sleep when he comes into her room and stands over her bed for a few seconds longer than what is comfortable before passing a soft hand through her hair and whispering how he misses the taste of her cunt.

Sometimes, she goes to his room after that.

A year has passed since Aunt Lysa’s death, but Alayne never knew Aunt Lysa as a person, only as a shadow that looms over her poor father’s past and future.  Her bodyguard, Marillion, had murdered her in cold blood; she had favored him and trusted him for years and had placed him in her will.  Everyone knew this.  Petyr had been away at the time, a couple of towns over on business, with the receipts and such to prove this.  Shortly thereafter, Alayne, his estranged daughter, had contacted him after seeing the tragedy unfold on the news.  They needed each other for comfort, as Ms. Stone had recently died of cancer and she had never gotten on with her stepfather, though she had taken his name.  It had all fallen together very neatly.

Sansa Stark is long gone now, suspected either to have fled the country or died.  The latter is heavily suspected.  Alayne has never felt so alone.

They live in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of a major city, where Petyr still works at Eyrie Enterprises, the puppeteer behind all the marionettes. She goes to school - community college, to clear her basics out of the way. Harry Hardyng, the ward of one of the Eyrie's executives, attends the community college as well. Alayne had been charged with getting close to him, but not too close.

 

_"Make him want you," he had said as he carved short nails down her ribs. She shivered. "Draw him in, but don't ensnare. Tempt, but don't give. You want to be more than an infatuation. Obsessions are short-lived."_

_Not that short-lived, if he still wanted her so badly. She almost said so aloud and he must have predicted it, because then he threw her leg over his shoulder and his mouth was hot against her. As his tongue dove inside her, rolling and twisting in tune with her hips, she thought maybe she wasn't an obsession at all, but an addiction._

 

Harry is tall and beautiful, somehow tan year round, a boy of salt and sea far out of place around these parts. He's not too bright either, thus his attending community college. Ms. Waynwood assured him she wouldn't be putting a new wing into Dartmouth just to get him accepted, and he just missed the Lacrosse scholarship. He does a lot of extracurriculars - he confided in her that he thought they might pad his grades and make his transcript a little more attractive.

 

_"Here's the history section."_

_Alayne led the blond to a shelf toward the back of the library. He had approached her and asked and so she delivered him. It was her favorite section, full of tales of knights and chivalry. When she was a child, she had skipped over all the nasty bits. As an adult, she found she could relate better to the conniving queens than the voiceless princesses._

_"Thank you. You're familiar, but I swear I would remember a face as pretty as yours."_

_She blushed graciously._

_"I'm Alayne. Alayne Stone."_

_"Harry Hardyng. Do you think you could help me study? I have shit memory, but I think it could be better if you were the one quizzing me."_

 

There's an unspoken rule that Alayne should stay under the radar. Though no one recognizes her out here, there's always a chance. Contacts and hair dye won't solve everything. Still, she's getting a bit stir crazy. Randa Royce is her only friend here, and the term "friend" is used loosely. Her father isn't around much and honestly, isn't it a bit pathetic for an eighteen-year-old girl to seek companionship from her parent?

These are the arguments she forms as she makes her way to his office, wringing her hands. Harry's clubs for the most part don't interest her, but one does. Drama club. She wants to be apart of something besides a grand scheme, and she wants to be around more people closer to her age. More than that, it would be something she would excel in, a way to practice the many talents he's bred in her. Surely, that's understandable?

 

_"I only ever see you at school. Why don't you come out with me sometime?"_

_Harry tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, tracing the shell of it. His eyes were trained on her lips, swollen from their necking._

_"I told you, my dad would freak."_

_"You don't have to tell him."_

_"He would still know."_

_"That's creepy."_

_"He's kind of a creepy guy."_

_"Well, how about you join an after school thing? Like a club or something that I'm in? He couldn't say anything then."_

 

And if he won't listen to reason, she has other ways to convince him. Alayne has purposefully withheld herself from him for a few weeks now. An addiction can control a man, if left unchecked.

She raps on the door to his office, though the door is open. He sits behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he peruses documents he keeps under lock and key, typing away at his laptop. He lifts his head and smiles in his paternal way that she feels in the pit of her stomach. Or maybe it's the way he looks at her legs that strikes her. Alayne had chosen a night shirt as her armor of choice, oversized and faded, falling to mid-thigh. While not sexy in and of itself, this is a game of subtleties and she wears it for what it implies rather than what it shows. It gives her an air of vulnerability and conceals her guile, just as surely as it hints that she is in nothing but a shirt and underwear, both of which are easily removed.

"Am I interrupting, Daddy?"

She never, ever calls him that, had never even called Ned that. The word sounds strange on her adult tongue. To her ears, it sounds inappropriate, which for her intentions, is appropriate.

If he finds the endearment off, he doesn't react.

"No, not at all, sweetheart. It's late. Something keeping you up?"

She steps inside and seats herself, uninvited, in the leather chair across from his. Her hands take residence in her lap where they fidget in anticipation of rejection. That, at least, isn't a ruse.

"Yes. Um, I...I wanted to join the drama club at school."

Her father steeples his hands together, pressing his forefingers to his lips. He still wears his dress shirt and tie, slightly rumpled from the day, sleeves rolled to his elbows. She likes him like this, the businessman brought low. If there are things she must do, they won't be a displeasure.

"Is that it? You know that's out of the question."

"Is it? Harry is in it and I thought it would be a good way to get closer to him."

"As I understand it, you two are very close."

She swallows and stills her hands. How much does he know? Already, she can feel the scales tipping toward him before the conversation can begin.

"Not as close as we could be. Daddy, I could be very good at this. And I get so lonely and bored with you away so often...." She trails off, her voice raising in a plaintive note.

"You haven't been acting very lonely these past few weeks. In fact, I would say you've been leaving _your daddy_ very lonely."

She widens her eyes and flutters her lashes.

"Have I?"

"You have. And besides that, it's just not a good idea. One picture of you in the school paper, one picture of you on Facebook and suddenly, Alayne Stone is Sansa Stark. And I believe we both decided facial reconstruction was out of the question."

"Yes, but--"

"But no, Alayne."

He is firm. She forgot how strong he could make his voice and how accustomed she had grown to the lilting, sing-song way he usually speaks. She doesn't bother hiding the disappointment on her face as she stares at her hands. Plan B, then.

"Oh, sweetling, I'm sorry. Come here."

She does as she is bid, rising from her seat and walking around to the other side of the desk, where he waits with open arms. It's no trouble to sink to her knees in the ancient position of supplication. She positions herself between his legs and lets him embrace her tightly to his chest. There's that smell of his, money and mint, mingled with plush leather and dark wood. She wraps her arms around his neck, fingers curling into the soft hair at the back of his neck.

"Daddy," she whispers and she sees him swallow. "What do I need to do to convince you?"

He smiles and it's not sweet and paternal at all. It's dark and curling, setting a spark in her. This is him, the _real_ him, and she likes it. It's okay if she loses the control she never truly had at this point - as long as the result is the same.

"Why don't you show me what a good actress you are? Put on a little show for me."

Oh, but she hadn't expected that. She raises her eyebrows, her mouth going dry. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and his eyes follow the motion hungrily.

"What do you mean?"

"I would like a performance. I'll be your director."

"O-okay."

"Do you have stage fright?"

She squares her shoulders and stands, tilting her nose up.

"No."

"Very good. Take off your shirt."

As requested, she makes a show of it as best she can, lifting the hem of the ugly shirt slowly, revealing inch by inch of pale skin. She arches her back into it, giving him the full benefit of her lean torso and then dragging the fabric over her nipples, which are rapidly hardening in the cool air.

When she pulls it over her head and tosses it aside, she's greeted by the sight of him watching her with narrowed eyes. The outline of his growing erection is clearly visible through his black pants and oh, she wants it. Abruptly, he begins clearing things off his workspace, neatly tucking things away.

"Sit on the desk."

She does. He grips her ankles and positions her feet on the arms of the chair. She feels on display, even with her panties in the way. Without prompting, she slides her hands down over her breasts, catching her nipples between her fingers and tweaking them. His smirk widens and so does her legs.

"Good girl. Now, pull up your panties."

"What?"

"Let me show you."

He reaches to the front of her underwear, pinching it into a thin line and drags it upward so it parts her lips and settles between them. It's a strange sensation, but when he wiggles it, it stokes the small throb to something bigger as the lace rub against her clit. She was only a little wet before, as apprehension had stood in the way of her full arousal, but what little is there soaks through the cotton. He tugs the fabric this way and that, up and down, sideways, and it's just this side of rough, but it's enough to make her whimper. Then, he lets go and she sighs at the loss of his touch as he sits back in his chair, looking all for the world like he didn't just floss her cunt.

"This is your show, remember?"

But she doesn't want to do what he showed her. It's too indirect and with her mounting desire, she has less and less patience for teasing. Instead, Alayne shoves a hand beneath her panties and works rough circles over her clit with two fingers. Immediately, she bucks forward with a guttural grunt as fire courses through her, curling her painted toes.

Petyr laughs; it's low and deep and every part of these secret moments encapsulated into one, derisive sound. Her eyes open - she didn't remember closing them - and he's idly stroking himself through his slacks. The sight of it doubles her pleasure and she chokes out another moan. He pulls aside her panties, watching her eager fingers.

"You like having an audience, don't you, Alayne? Even while you stroke your own cunt?"

She nods before she manages a weak, trembling "yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Clever girl."

He reaches beside her on the desk. Her gaze is slow to follow, but she sees him pick up his monogrammed letter opener. Her fingers pause.

"Don't stop."

Fear trickles through her; it's a distant sensation as her hand resumes movement, albeit at a slower pace. He would never hurt her, not physically, but she can't stop a gasp as he unsheathes it. The blade is cool against her hip when he slips it under the strap of her underwear. It tears with little work. The other side is given the same treatment. He pulls it away from her, wet as it is, and tosses it aside, forgotten for now - she will mourn it later. Alayne had a goal in mind, had been angling for something, but it seems insignificant now that cool air is washing over her. Goosebumps prickle along her skin.

"That's better. Now where were we? Oh, that's right. Why don't you put some of those fingers inside yourself?"

"Yes, Daddy."

The word sends a perverse thrill up her spine, warming her cheeks even further. She plunges her middle finger into herself, curling it upward in the way he taught her to like. It strikes something near her entrance, something that made her eyes water with the intensity of sensation.

"Look at you. A natural. Maybe you practiced with Harry? Have you let him see you like this, dripping wet and wanting? Have you begged for his cock?"

 

_Harry didn’t kiss like her father did.  He used more tongue and less lip, more mouth and less teeth.  It was different and part of her liked that difference, as messy as it was.  The back of his car was cramped, especially with his being so bulky, and her neck hurt from being jammed against the door.  It was hot, too, unpleasantly so.  He didn’t seem to mind any of these things as his lips moved down her throat._

_“You smell so good.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_He chuckled into her collarbone, hands fiddling with the top button of her blouse.  She put her own over his._

_“Nope.”_

_“Come on, Alayne.” His voice was plaintive, slurred by her skin._

_“No.”_

_He took her hand in his and brought it downward, pressing it against where he was hard and throbbing._

_“This is what you do to me.”_

_She curled her fingers, feeling his girth for the briefest of moment and then pulled her hand away. Tempted, but virtuous._

_“And that’s all I’ll do to you.”_

 

She shakes her head quickly.

"No, Daddy."

"No. Of course not." He pauses, staring between her legs so attentively that she almost wants to close them. "Stop."

She stops hesitantly, withdrawing her shaking hands and flicking off the moisture accumulated on her fingertips.

"I'm done watching."

Alayne - Sansa, it's all the same now -  yelps as he hooks her thighs over his shoulders and jerks her forward, burying his head between her legs. One of her hands threads itself through his hair, as much for balance as to just _keep him there_ , while the other splays itself on the desk behind her. He devours her with relish, beard scratching against her skin. She was already sensitive and he knows it and uses it to his advantage. His tongue flicks against her hood, applying enough pressure so that it's just shy of too much, enough so her eyes roll back and her legs shake. It nearly hurts, but the pain is welcome, sharpening the pleasure to a fine point and she's so close, so, so close, her own wails ringing in her ears --

"Turn around."

The warmth and euphoria stop. He's standing, unbuckling his belt. She grabs for him, high off her desire, but he slaps her hand away hard enough to sting.

"Do as I say, Sansa. Turn around."

Hearing her name, her real name, from his lips is more taboo than anything she could call him. He growls it, sounding more beast than man. She shimmies off the desk, the back of her thighs smearing the puddle she's made, and turns uncertainly. Over her shoulder, he's all need and darkness, his presence towering over her.  His slacks hang open, giving her a full view of his length.  He’s smaller than Harry, but she knows how well he fits her.

"Hands on the desk. Bend over. Further. That's it. I want to see that perfect ass."

He nudges her feet with his, pushing them further apart.  Then she feels him, hot and hard, pressing against her slit, rolling back and forth over her clit.  Her wetness coats him.  She pushes backward.

“This is what you want.  You want your reward for being such a good little actress.”

“Mmhmm.  Yes.  Yes.”

“You don’t want your little drama club.”

She frowns, because yes, she does.  Sansa straightens to tell him so, but his grip on her waist stills her.

“Can’t I have both?”

“You’re being greedy.”

She wiggles her hips back and forth.  He says something under his breath she can’t quite make out - it sounds something like “fuck it” - and then he fucks her. With a hand to guide him, he enters her in a smooth stroke, setting her nerve endings alight.  Her breath leaves her in one loud exhale.  He always pushes everything out of her; her air, her truths, her fears, her thoughts, her identity.  They leave her one at a time with each pound of his hips.  He replaces everything he takes with him, solid and thick inside her.  Her weight is on her elbows now, with each thrust pushing her forward on the desk, her thighs pressing into the edge so hard it hurts.  

Suddenly, she’s being jerked backwards by her hair, the hair he is twisting around his hand.  The pain shoots straight to her core.  She moans piteously as he curses at her powerful clench around him.  His expensive shirt is soft against her back and his words are rough in her ear.

“Greedy, greedy little girl.  You want everything.”

“So do you.” She’s pleased she’s coherent enough to speak.

“I want _you_. And you want my cock.  Why don’t you show me how much?”

He releases her; she staggers forward, hands bracing herself on the wood for the impact of his hips.  It doesn’t come.  She glances over her shoulder at him, pouting.

“Go on.”

Oh.  Sansa lowers herself back onto her elbows.  He’s still inside her, maddeningly still.  She draws herself forward slowly, feeling herself close in his wake and then brings herself back with equal deliberation.  She does it again and again until she finds a steady tempo, but when he brings his hand around her hip to rub insistently against her clit, the steady tempo isn’t enough.  With a cry, she quickens until she bounces against him, his hair scratching her ass, their skin slapping obscenely.  It isn’t long before he joins her, meeting her backwards thrusts with his forwards motions until they’re rutting like animals.  He wraps an arm around her waist and brings her down with him onto the chair and she’s impaled on him, fingers wrapped around the armrests as she grinds her way to oblivion.

He comes first with his teeth in her shoulder muffling his groan.  His fingertips twitch and spasm against her, pressing hard, and she follows.  It’s like she’s dying.  Tortured moans rips from her raw throat, death bed cries.  Her bones lock, her back arches, and every single muscle seizes.  Wave after wave of blinding ecstasy rocks through her and for one, crystalline moment, she doesn’t exist and nothing exists and that’s it.

Then, it ends.  Her bones suddenly can’t support her weight.  She slumps backward against him, eyes still closed.  He draws lazy circles over her stomach that incite tremors in her and in turn, tremors in him, still locked inside her as he is.  It’s a perfect silence as their pulses slow to an acceptable rate.

“You can do make-up or hairstyling.  No photographs, no acting.”

She smiles.

“Yes, Daddy.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
